Title: Madam Sara
Author: L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace
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Language: English
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Madam Sara

by

L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace

Everyone in trade and a good many who are not have heard of
Werner's Agency, the Solvency Inquiry Agency for all British trade.
Its business is to know the financial condition of all wholesale and
retail firms, from Rothschild's to the smallest sweetstuff shop in
Whitechapel. I do not say that every firm figures on its books, but
by methods of secret inquiry it can discover the status of any firm
or individual. It is the great safeguard to British trade and
prevents much fraudulent dealing.

Of this agency I, Dixon Druce, was appointed manager in 1890.
Since then I have met queer people and seen strange sights, for men
do curious things for money in this world.

It so happened that in June, 1899, my business took me to Madeira
on an inquiry of some importance. I left the island on the 14th of
the month by the Norham Castle for Southampton. I embarked
after dinner. It was a lovely night, and the strains of the band in
the public gardens of Funchal came floating across the star-powdered
bay through the warm, balmy air. Then the engine bells rang to 'Full
speed ahead', and, flinging a farewell to the fairest island on
earth, I turned to the smoking-room in order to light my cheroot.

'Do you want a match, sir?'

The voice came from a slender, young-looking man who stood near
the taffrail. Before I could reply he had struck one and held it out
to me.

Our hands met in a warm clasp, and a moment later I found myself
sitting close to my old friend, who had fagged for me in the bygone
days, and whom I had not seen from the moment when I said goodbye to
the 'Hill' in the grey mist of a December morning twenty years ago.
He was a boy of fourteen then, but nevertheless I recognised him. His
face was bronzed and good-looking, his features refined. As a boy
Selby had been noted for his grace, his well-shaped head, his
clean-cut features; these characteristics still were his, and
although he was now slightly past his first youth he was decidedly
handsome. He gave me a quick sketch of his history.

'My father left me plenty of money,' he said, 'and The Meadows,
our old family place, is now mine. I have a taste for natural
history; that taste took me two years ago to South America. I have
had my share of strange adventures, and have collected valuable
specimens and trophies. I am now on my way home from Para, on the
Amazon, having come by a Booth boat to Madeira and changed there to
the Castle Line. But why all this talk about myself?' he added,
bringing his deck chair a little nearer to mine. 'What about your
history, old chap? Are you settled down with a wife and kiddies of
your own, or is that dream of your school days fulfilled, and are you
the owner of the best private laboratory in London?'

'As to the laboratory,' I said, with a smile, 'you must come and
see it. For the rest I am unmarried. Are you?'

'I was married the day before I left Para, and my wife is on board
with me.'

'Capital,' I answered. 'Let me hear all about it.'

'You shall. Her maiden name was Dallas; Beatrice Dallas. She is
just twenty now. Her father was an Englishman and her mother a
Spaniard; neither parent is living. She has an elder sister, Edith,
nearly thirty years of age, unmarried, who is on board with us. There
is also a step-brother, considerably older than either Edith or
Beatrice. I met my wife last year in Para, and at once fell in love.
I am the happiest man on earth. It goes without saying that I think
her beautiful, and she is also very well off. The story of her wealth
is a curious one. Her uncle on the mother's side was an extremely
wealthy Spaniard, who made an enormous fortune in Brazil out of
diamonds and minerals; he owned several mines. But it is supposed
that his wealth turned his brain. At any rate, it seems to have done
so as far as the disposal of his money went. He divided the yearly
profits and interest between his nephew and his two nieces, but
declared that the property itself should never be split up. He has
left the whole of it to that one of the three who should survive the
others. A perfectly insane arrangement, but not, I believe,
unprecedented in Brazil.'

'Very insane,' I echoed. 'What was he worth?'

'Over two million sterling.'

'By Jove!' I cried, 'what a sum! But what about the
half-brother?'

'He must be over forty years of age, and is evidently a bad lot. I
have never seen him. His sisters won't speak to him or have anything
to do with him. I understand that he is a great gambler; I am further
told that he is at present in England, and, as there are certain
technicalities to be gone through before the girls can fully enjoy
their incomes, one of the first things I must do when I get home is
to find him out. He has to sign certain papers, for we shan't be able
to put things straight until we get his whereabouts. Some time ago my
wife and Edith heard that he was ill, but dead or alive we must know
all about him, and as quickly as possible.'

I made no answer, and he continued:

'I'll introduce you to my wife and sister-in-law tomorrow.
Beatrice is quite a child compared to Edith, who acts towards her
almost like a mother. Bee is a little beauty, so fresh and round and
young-looking. But Edith is handsome, too, although I sometimes think
she is as vain as a peacock. By the way, Druce, this brings me to
another part of my story. The sisters have an acquaintance on board,
one of the most remarkable women I have ever met. She goes by the
name of Madame Sara, and knows London well. In fact, she confesses to
having a shop in the Strand. What she has been doing in Brazil I do
not know, for she keeps all her affairs strictly private. But you
will be amazed when I tell you what her calling is.'

'What?'I asked.

'A professional beautifier. She claims the privilege of restoring
youth to those who consult her. She also declares that she can make
quite ugly people handsome. There is no doubt that she is very
clever. She knows a little bit of everything, and has wonderful
recipes wilh regard to medicines, surgery, and dentistry. She is a
most lovely woman herself, very fair, with blue eyes, an innocent,
childlike manner, and quantities of rippling gold hair. She openly
confesses that she is very much older than she appears. She looks
about five-and-twenty. She seems to have travelled all over the
world, and says that by birth she is a mixture of Indian and Italian,
her father having been Italian and her mother Indian. Accompanying
her is an Arab, a handsome, picturesque sort of fellow, who gives her
the most absolute devotion, and she is also bringing back to England
two Brazilians from Para. This woman deals in all sorts of curious
secrets, but principally in cosmetics. Her shop in the Strand could,
I fancy, tell many a strange history. Her clients go to her there,
and she does what is necessary for them. It is a fact that she
occasionally performs small surgical operations, and there is not a
dentist in London who can vie with her. She confesses quite naively
that she holds some secrets for making false teeth cling to the
palate that no one knows of. Edith Dallas is devoted to her—in
fact, her adoration amounts to idolatry.'

'You give a very brilliant account of this woman,' I said. 'You
must introduce me tomorrow.'

'I will,' answered Jack, with a smile. 'I should like your opinion
of her. I am right glad I have met you, Druce, it is like old times.
When we get to London I mean to put up at my town house in Eaton
Square for the remainder of the season. The Meadows shall be
re-furnished, and Bee and I will take up our quarters some time in
August; then you must come and see us. But I am afraid before I give
myself up to mere pleasure I must find that precious brother-in-law,
Henry Joachim Silva.'

'If you have any difficulty apply to me,' I said. 'I can put at
your disposal, in an unofficial way, of course, agents who would find
almost any man in England, dead or alive.' I then proceeded to give
Selby a short account of my own business.

'Thanks,' he said presently, 'that is capital. You are the very
man we want.'

The next morning after breakfast Jack introduced me to his wife
and sister-in-law. They were both foreign-looking, but very handsome,
and the wife in particular had a graceful and uncommon appearance. We
had been chatting about five minutes when I saw coming down the deck
a slight, rather small woman, wearing a big sun hat.

'Ah, Madame,' cried Selby, 'here you are. I had the luck to meet
an old friend on board—Mr Dixon Druce—and I have been
telling him all about you. I should like you to know each other.
Druce, this lady is Madame Sara, of whom I have spoken to you. Mr
Dixon Druce—Madame Sara.'

She bowed gracefully and then looked at me earnestly. I had seldom
seen a more lovely woman. By her side both Mrs Selby and her sister
seemed to fade into insignificance. Her complexion was almost
dazzlingly fair, her face refined in expression, her eyes
penetrating, clever, and yet with the innocent, frank gaze of a
child. Her dress was very simple; she looked altogether like a young,
fresh, and natural girl.

As we sat chatting lightly and about commonplace topics, I
instinctively felt that she took an interest in me even greater than
might be expected upon an ordinary introduction. By slow degrees she
so turned the conversation as to leave Selby and his wife and sister
out, and then as they moved away she came a little nearer, and said
in a low voice:

'I am very glad we have met, and yet how odd this meeting is! Was
it really accidental?'

'I do not understand you,' I answered.

'I know who you are,' she said, lightly. 'You are the manager of
Werner's Agency; its business is to know the private affairs of those
people who would rather keep their own secrets. Now, Mr Druce, I am
going to be absolutely frank with you. I own a small shop in the
Strand—a perfumery shop—and behind those innocent-looking
doors I conduct the business which brings me in gold of the realm.
Have you, Mr Druce, any objection to my continuing to make a
livelihood in perfectly innocent ways?'

'None whatever,' I answered.' You puzzle me by alluding to the
subject.'

'I want you to pay my shop a visit when you come to London. I have
been away for three or four months. I do wonders for my clients, and
they pay me largely for my services. I hold some perfectly innocent
secrets which I cannot confide to anybody. I have obtained them
partly from the Indians and partly from the natives of Brazil. I have
lately been in Para to inquire into certain methods by which my trade
can be improved.'

'And your trade is—?' I said, looking at her with amusement
and some surprise.

'I am a beautifier,' she said, lightly. She looked at me with a
smile. 'You don't want me yet, Mr Druce, but the time may come when
even you will wish to keep back the infirmities of years. In the
meantime can you guess my age?'

'I will not hazard a guess,' I answered.

'And I will not tell you. Let it remain a secret. Meanwhile,
understand that my calling is quite an open one, and I do hold
secrets. I should advise you, Mr Druce, even in your professional
capacity, not to interfere with them:'

The childlike expression faded from her face as she uttered the
last words. There seemed to ring a sort of challenge in her tone. She
turned away after a few moments and I rejoined my friends.

'You have been making acquaintance with Madame Sara, Mr Druce,'
said Mrs Selby. 'Don't you think she is lovely?'

'She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen,' I
answered, 'but there seems to be a mystery about her.'

'Oh, indeed there is,' said Edith Dallas, gravely.

'She asked me if I could guess her age,' I continued. 'I did not
try, but surely she cannot be more than five-and-twenty.'

'No one knows her age,' said Mrs Selby, 'but I will tell you a
curious fact, which, perhaps, you will not believe. She was
bridesmaid at my mother's wedding thirty years ago. She declares that
she never changes, and has no fear of old age.'

'You mean that seriously?' I cried. 'But surely it is
impossible?'

'Her name is on the register, and my mother knew her well. She was
mysterious then, and I think my mother got into her power, but of
that I am not certain. Anyhow, Edith and I adore her, don't we,
Edie?'

She laid her hand affectionately on her sister's arm. Edith Dallas
did not speak, but her face was careworn. After a time she said
slowly: 'Madame Sara is uncanny and terrible.'

There is, perhaps, no business imaginable—not even a
lawyer's—that engenders suspicions more than mine. I hate all
mysteries—both in persons and things. Mysteries are my natural
enemies; I felt now that this woman was a distinct mystery. That she
was interested in me I did not doubt, perhaps because she was afraid
of me.

The rest of the voyage passed pleasantly enough. The more I saw of
Mrs Selby and her sister the more I liked them. They were quiet,
simple, and straightforward. I felt sure that they were both as good
as gold.

We parted at Waterloo, Jack and his wife and her sister going to
Jack's house in Eaton Square, and I returning to my quarters in St
John's Wood. I had a house there, with a long garden, at the bottom
of which was my laboratory, the laboratory that was the pride of my
life, it being, I fondly considered, the best private laboratory in
London. There I spent all my spare time making experiments and trying
this chemical combination and the other, living in hopes of doing
great things some day, for Werner's Agency was not to be the end of
my career. Nevertheless, it interested me thoroughly, and I was not
sorry to get back to my commercial conundrums.

The next day, just before I started to go to my place of business,
Jack Selby was announced.

'I want you to help me,' he said. 'I have been already trying in a
sort of general way to get information about my brother-in-law, but
all in vain. There is no such person in any of the directories. Can
you put me on the road to discovery?'

I said I could and would if he would leave the matter in my
hands.

'With pleasure,' he replied. 'You see how we are fixed up. Neither
Edith nor Bee can get money with any regularity until the man is
found. I cannot imagine why he hides himself.'

'I will insert advertisements in the personal columns of the
newspapers,' I said, 'and request anyone who can give information to
communicate with me at my office. I will also give instructions to
all the branches of my firm, as well as to my head assistants in
London, to keep their eyes open for any news. You may be quite
certain that in a week or two we shall know all about him.'

Selby appeared cheered at this proposal, and, having begged of me
to call upon his wife and her sister as soon as possible, took his
leave.

On that very day advertisements were drawn up and sent to several
newspapers and inquiry agents; but week after week passed without the
slightest result. Selby got very fidgety at the delay. He was never
happy except in my presence, and insisted on my coming, whenever I
had time, to his house. I was glad to do so, for I took an interest
both in him and his belongings, and as to Madame Sara I could not get
her out of my head. One day Mrs Selby said to me:

'Have you ever been to see Madame? I know she would like to show
you her shop and general surroundings.'

'I did promise to call upon her,' I answered, 'but have not had
time to do so yet.'

She turned red as she spoke, and the worried, uneasy expression
became more marked on her face. I had noticed for some time that she
had been looking both nervous and depressed. I had first observed
this peculiarity about her on board the Norham Castle, but, as
time went on, instead of lessening it grew worse. Her face for so
young a woman was haggard; she started at each sound, and Madame
Sara's name was never spoken in her presence without her evincing
almost undue emotion.

'Will you come with me?' she said, with great eagerness.

I immediately promised, and the next day, about eleven o'clock,
Edith Dallas and I found ourselves in a hansom driving to Madame
Sara's shop. We reached it in a few minutes, and found an
unpretentious little place wedged in between a hosier's on one side
and a cheap print-seller's on the other. In the windows of the shop
were pyramids of perfume bottles, with scintillating facet stoppers
tied with coloured ribbons. We stepped out of the hansom and went
indoors. Inside the shop were a couple of steps, which led to a door
of solid mahogany.

'This is the entrance to her private house,' said Edith, and she
pointed to a small brass plate, on which was engraved the
name—'Madame Sara, Parfumeuse'. Edith touched an electric bell
and the door was immediately opened by a smartly-dressed page-boy. He
looked at Miss Dallas as if he knew her very well, and said:

'Madame is within, and is expecting you, miss.'

He ushered us both into a quiet-looking room, soberly but
handsomely furnished. He left us, closing the door. Edith turned to
me.

'Do you know where we are?' she asked.

'We are standing at present in a small room just behind Madame
Sara's shop,' I answered. 'Why are you so excited, Miss Dallas? What
is the matter with you?'

'We are on the threshold of a magician's cave,' she replied. 'We
shall soon be face to face with the most marvellous woman in the
whole of London. There is no one like her.'

'And you—fear her?' I said, dropping my voice to a
whisper.

She started, stepped back, and with great difficulty recovered her
composure. At that moment the page-boy returned to conduct us through
a series of small waiting-rooms, and we soon found ourselves in the
presence of Madame herself.

'Ah!' she said, with a smile. 'This is delightful. You have kept
your word, Edith, and I am greatly obliged to you. I will now show Mr
Druce some of the mysteries of my trade. But understand, sir,' she
added, 'that I shall not tell you any of my real secrets, only as you
would like to know something about me you shall.'

'How can you tell I should like to know about you?' I asked.

She gave me an earnest glance which somewhat astonished me, and
then she said: 'Knowledge is power; don't refuse what I am willing to
give. Edith, you will not object to waiting here while I show Mr
Druce through the rooms. First observe this room, Mr Druce. It is
lighted only from the roof. When the door shuts it automatically
locks itself, so that any in-trusion from without is impossible. This
is my sanctum sanctorum—a faint odour of perfume pervades the
room. This is a hot day, but the room itself is cool. What do you
think of it all?'

I made no answer. She walked to the other end and motioned to me
to accompany her. There stood a polished oak square table, on which
lay an array of extraordinary-looking articles and
implements—stoppered bottles full of strange medicaments,
mirrors, plane and concave, brushes, sprays, sponges, delicate
needle-pointed instruments of bright steel, tiny lancets, and
forceps. Facing this table was a chair, like those used by dentists.
Above the chair hung electric lights in powerful reflectors, and
lenses like bull's-eye lanterns. Another chair, supported on a glass
pedestal, was kept there, Madame Sara informed me, for administering
static electricity. There were dry-cell batteries for the continuous
currents and induction coils for Faradic currents. There were also
platinum needles for burning out the roots of hairs.

Madame took me from this room into another, where a still more
formidable array of instruments was to be found. Here were a wooden
operating table and chloroform and ether apparatus. When I had looked
at everything, she turned to me.

'Now you know,' she said. 'I am a doctor—perhaps a quack.
These are my secrets. By means of these I live and flourish.'

She turned her back on me and walked into the other room with the
light, springy step of youth. Edith Dallas, white as a ghost, was
waiting for us.

'You have done your duty, my child,' said Madame. 'Mr Druce has
seen just what I want him to see. I am very much obliged to you both.
We shall meet tonight at Lady Farringdon's "At Home". Until then,
farewell.'

When we got into the street and were driving back again to Eaton
Square, I turned to Edith.

'Many things puzzle me about your friend,' I said, 'but perhaps
none more than this. By what possible means can a woman who owns to
being the possessor of a shop obtain the entrée to some of the
best houses in London? Why does Society open her doors to this woman,
Miss Dallas?'

'I cannot quite tell you,' was her reply. 'I only know the fact
that wherever she goes she is welcomed and treated with
consideration, and wherever she fails to appear there is a
universally expressed feeling of regret.'

I had also been invited to Lady Farringdon's reception that
evening, and I went there in a state of great curiosity. There was no
doubt that Madame interested me. I was not sure of her. Beyond doubt
there was a mystery attached to her, and also, for some unaccountable
reason, she wished both to propitiate and defy me. Why was this?

I arrived early, and was standing in the crush near the head of
the staircase when Madame was announced. She wore the richest white
satin and quantities of diamonds. I saw her hostess bend towards her
and talk eagerly. I noticed Madame's reply and the pleased expression
that crossed Lady Farringdon's face. A few minutes later a man with a
foreign-looking face and long beard sat down before the grand piano.
He played a light prelude and Madame Sara began to sing. Her voice
was sweet and low, with an extraordinary pathos in it. It was the
sort of voice that penetrates to the heart. There was an instant
pause in the gay chatter. She sang amidst perfect silence, and when
the song had come to an end there followed a furore of applause. I
was just turning to say something to my nearest neigh-hour when I
observed Edith Dallas, who was standing close by. Her eyes met mine;
she laid her hand on my sleeve.

'The room is hot,' she said, half panting as she spoke. 'Take me
out on the balcony.'

I did so. The atmosphere of the reception-rooms was almost
intolerable, but it was comparatively cool in the open air.

'I must not lose sight of her,' she said, suddenly.

'Of whom?' I asked, somewhat astonished at her words.

'Of Sara.'

'She is there,' I said. 'You can see her from where you
stand.'

We happened to be alone. I came a little closer.

'Why are you afraid of her?' I asked.

'Are you sure that we shall not be heard?' was her answer.

'She terrifies me,' were her next words.

'I will not betray your confidence, Miss Dallas. Will you not
trust me? You ought to give me a reason for your fears.'

'I cannot—I dare not; I have said far too much already.
Don't keep me, Mr Druce. She must not find us together.' As she spoke
she pushed her way through the crowd, and before I could stop her was
standing by Madame Sara's side.

The reception in Portland Place was, I remember, on the 26th of
July. Two days later the Selbys were to give their final 'At Home'
before leaving for the country. I was, of course, invited to be
present, and Madame was also there. She had never been dressed more
splendidly, nor had she ever before looked younger or more beautiful.
Wherever she went all eyes followed her. As a rule her dress was
simple, almost like what a girl would wear, but tonight she chose
rich Oriental stuffs made of many colours, and absolutely glittering
with gems. Her golden hair was studded with diamonds. Round her neck
she wore turquoise and diamonds mixed. There were many younger women
in the room, but not the youngest nor the fairest had a chance beside
Madame. It was not mere beauty of appearance, it was
charm—charm which carries all before it.

I saw Miss Dallas, looking slim and tall and pale, standing at a
little distance. I made my way to her side. Before I had time to
speak she bent towards me.

'Is she not divine?' she whispered. 'She bewilders and delights
everyone. She is taking London by storm.'

'Then you are not afraid of her tonight?' I said.

'I fear her more than ever. She has cast a spell over me. But
listen, she is going to sing again.'

I had not forgotten the song that Madame had given us at the
Farringdons', and stood still to listen. There was a complete hush in
the room. Her voice floated over the heads of the assembled guests in
a dreamy Spanish song. Edith told me that it was a slumber song, and
that Madame boasted of her power of putting almost anyone to sleep
who listened to her rendering of it.

'She has many patients who suffer from insomnia,' whispered the
girl, 'and she generally cures them with that song, and that alone.
Ah! we must not talk; she will hear us.'

Before I could reply Selby came hurrying up. He had not noticed
Edith. He caught me by the arm.

'Come just for a minute into this window, Dixon,' he said. 'I must
speak to you. I suppose you have no news with regard to my
brother-in-law?'

'Not a word,' I answered.

'To tell you the truth, I am getting terribly put out over the
matter. We cannot settle any of our money affairs just because this
man chooses to lose himself. My wife's lawyers wired to Brazil
yesterday, but even his bankers do not know anything about him.'

'The whole thing is a question of time,' was my answer. 'When are
you off to Hampshire?'

'On Saturday.'

As Selby said the last words he looked around him, then he dropped
his voice.

'I want to say something else. The more I see—' he nodded
towards Madame Sara—'the less I like her. Edith is getting into
a very strange state. Have you not noticed it? And the worst of it is
my wife is also infected. I suppose it is that dodge of the woman's
for patching people up and making them beautiful. Doubtless the
temptation is overpowering in the case of a plain woman, but Beatrice
is beautiful herself and young. What can she have to do with
cosmetics and complexion pills?'

'You don't mean to tell me that your wife has consulted Madame
Sara as a doctor?'

'Not exactly, but she has gone to her about her teeth. She
complained of toothache lately, and Madame's dentistry is renowned.
Edith is constantly going to her for one thing or another, but then
Edith is infatuated.'

As Jack said the last words he went over to speak to someone else,
and before I could leave the seclusion of the window I perceived
Edith Dallas and Madame Sara in earnest conversation together. I
could not help overhearing the following words:

'Don't come to me tomorrow. Get into the country as soon as you
can. It is far and away the best thing to do.'

As Madame spoke she turned swiftly and caught my eye. She bowed,
and the peculiar look, the sort of challenge, she had given me before
flashed over her face. It made me uncomfortable, and during the night
that followed I could not get it out of my head. I remembered what
Selby had said with regard to his wife and her money affairs. Beyond
doubt he had married into a mystery—a mystery that Madame knew
all about. There was a very big money interest, and strange things
happen when millions are concerned.

The next morning I had just risen and was sitting at breakfast
when a note was handed to me. It came by special messenger, and was
marked 'Urgent'. I tore it open. These were its contents:

'My dear Druce, A terrible blow has fallen on us. My
sister-in-law, Edith, was taken suddenly ill this morning at
breakfast. The nearest doctor was sent for, but he could do nothing,
as she died half an hour ago. Do come and see me, and if you know any
very clever specialist bring him with you. My wife is utterly stunned
by the shock. Yours, Jack Selby.'

I read the note twice before I could realize what it meant. Then I
rushed out and, hailing the first hansom I met, said to the man:
'Drive to No. 192, Victoria Street, as quickly as you can.'

Here lived a certain Mr Eric Vandeleur, an old friend of mine and
the police surgeon for the Westminster district, which included Eaton
Square. No shrewder or sharper fellow existed than Vandeleur, and the
present case was essentially in his province, both legally and
professionally. He was not at his flat when I arrived, having already
gone down to the court. Here I accordingly hurried, and was informed
that he was in the mortuary.

For a man who, as it seemed to me, lived in a perpetual atmosphere
of crime and violence, of death and coroners' courts, his habitual
cheerfulness and brightness of manner were remarkable. Perhaps it was
only the reaction from his work, for he had the reputation of being
one of the most astute experts of the day in medical jurisprudence,
and the most skilled analyst in toxicological cases on the
Metropolitan Police staff. Before I could send him word that I wanted
to see him I heard a door bang, and Vandeleur came hurrying down the
passage, putting on his coat as he rushed along.

'Halloa!' he cried. 'I haven't seen you for ages. Do you want
me?'

'Yes, very urgently,' I answered. 'Are you busy?'

'Head over ears, my dear chap. I cannot give you a moment now, but
perhaps later on.'

'What is it? You look excited.'

'I have got to go to Eaton Square like the wind, but come along,
if you like, and tell me on the way.'

'Capital,' I cried. 'The thing has been reported then? You are
going to Mr Selby's, No. 34a; then I am going with you.'

He looked at me in amazement.

'But the case has only just been reported. What can you possibly
know about it?'

'Everything. Let us take this hansom, and I will tell you as we go
along.'

As we drove to Eaton Square I quickly explained the situation,
glancing now and then at Vandeleur's bright, clean-shaven face. He
was no longer Eric Vandeleur, the man with the latest club story and
the merry twinkle in his blue eyes: he was Vandeleur the medical
jurist, with a face like a mask, his lower jaw slightly protruding
and features very fixed.

'The thing promises to be serious,' he replied, as I finished,
'but I can do nothing until after the autopsy. Here we are, and there
is my man waiting for me; he has been smart.'

On the steps stood an official-looking man in uniform, who
saluted.

'Coroner's officer,' explained Vandeleur.

We entered the silent, darkened house. Selby was standing in the
hall. He came to meet us. I introduced him to Vandeleur, and he at
once led us into the dining-room, where we found Dr Osborne, whom
Selby had called in when the alarm of Edith's illness had been first
given. Dr Osborne was a pale, under-sized, very young man. His face
expressed considerable alarm. Vandeleur, however, managed to put him
completely at his ease.

'I will have a chat with you in a few minutes, Dr Osborne, he
said; 'but first I must get Mr Selby's report. Will you please tell
me, sir, exactly what occurred?'

'Certainly,' he answered. 'We had a reception here last night, and
my sister-in-law did not go to bed until early morning; she was in
bad spirits, but otherwise in her usual health. My wife went into her
room after she was in bed, and told me later on that she had found
Edith in hysterics, and could not get her to explain anything. We
both talked about taking her to the country without delay. Indeed,
our intention was to get off this afternoon.'

'Well?'said Vandeleur.

'We had breakfast about half-past nine, and Miss Dallas came down,
looking quite in her usual health, and in apparently good spirits.
She ate with appetite, and, as it happened, she and my wife were both
helped from the same dish. The meal had nearly come to an end when
she jumped up from the table, uttered a sharp cry, turned very pale,
pressed her hand to her side, and ran out of the room. My wife
immediately followed her. She came back again in a minute or two, and
said that Edith was in violent pain, and begged of me to send for a
doctor. Dr Osborne lives just round the corner. He came at once, but
she died almost immediately after his arrival.'

'You were in the room?' asked Vandeleur, turning to Osborne.
'Yes,' he replied. 'She was conscious to the last moment, and died
suddenly.'

'Did she tell you anything?'

'No, except to assure me that she had not eaten any food that day
until she had come down to breakfast. After the death occurred I sent
immediately to report the case, locked the door of the room where the
poor girl's body is, and saw also that nobody touched anything on
this table.'

Vandeleur rang the bell and a servant appeared. He gave quick
orders. The entire remains of the meal were collected and taken
charge of, and then he and the coroner's officer went upstairs.

When we were alone Selby sank into a chair. His face was quite
drawn and haggard.

'It is the horrible suddenness of the thing which is so
appalling,' he cried. 'As to Beatrice, I don't believe she will ever
be the same again. She was deeply attached to Edith. Edith was nearly
ten years her senior, and always acted the part of mother to her.
This is a sad beginning to our life. I can scarcely think
collectedly.'

I remained with him a little longer, and then, as Vandeleur did
not return, went back to my own house. There I could settle to
nothing, and when Vandeleur rang me up on the telephone about six
o'clock I hurried off to his rooms. As soon as I arrived I saw that
Selby was with him, and the expression on both their faces told me
the truth.

'This is a bad business,' said Vandeleur. 'Miss Dallas has died
from swallowing poison. An exhaustive analysis and examination have
been made, and a powerful poison, unknown to European toxicologists,
has been found. This is strange enough, but how it has been
administered is a puzzle. I confess, at the present moment, we are
all nonplussed. It certainly was not in the remains of the breakfast,
and we have her dying evidence that she took nothing else. Now, a
poison with such appalling potency would take effect quickly. It is
evident that she was quite well when she came to breakfast, and that
the poison began to work towards the close of the meal. But how did
she get it? This question, however, I shall deal with later on. The
more immediate point is this. The situation is a serious one in view
of the monetary issues and the value of the lady's life. From the
aspects of the case, her undoubted sanity and her affection for her
sister, we may almost exclude the idea of suicide. We must,
therefore, call it murder. This harmless, innocent lady is struck
down by the hand of an assassin, and with such devilish cunning that
no trace or clue is left behind. For such an act there must have been
some very powerful motive, and the person who designed and executed
it must be a criminal of the highest order of scientific ability. Mr
Selby has been telling me the exact financial position of the poor
lady, and also of his own young wife. The absolute disappearance of
the step-brother, in view of his previous character, is in the
highest degree strange. Knowing, as we do, that between him and two
million sterling there stood two lives—one is
taken!'

A deadly sensation of cold seized me as Vandeleur uttered these
last words. I glanced at Selby. His face was colourless and the
pupils of his eyes were contracted, as though he saw something which
terrified him.

'What happened once may happen again,' continued Vandeleur. 'We
are in the presence of a great mystery, and I counsel you, Mr Selby,
to guard your wife with the utmost care.'

These words, falling from a man of Vandeleur's position and
authority on such matters, were sufficiently shocking for me to hear,
but for Selby to be given such a solemn warning about his young and
beautiful and newly-married wife, who was all the world to him, was
terrible indeed. He leant his head on his hands.

'Mercy on us!' he muttered. 'Is this a civilized country when
death can walk abroad like this, invisible, not to be avoided? Tell
me, Mr Vandeleur, what I must do.'

'You must be guided by me,' said Vandeleur, 'and, believe me,
there is no witchcraft in the world. I shall place a detective in
your household immediately. Don't be alarmed; he will come to you in
plain clothes and will simply act as a servant. Nevertheless, nothing
can be done to your wife without his knowledge. As to you, Druce,' he
continued, turning to me, 'the police are doing all they can to find
this man Silva, and I ask you to help them with your big agency, and
to begin at once. Leave your friend to me. Wire instantly if you hear
news.'

'You may rely on me,' I said, and a moment later I had left the
room. As I walked rapidly down the street the thought of Madame Sara,
her shop and its mysterious background, its surgical instruments, its
operating-table, its induction coils, came back to me. And yet what
could Madame Sara have to do with the present strange, inexplicable
mystery?

The thought had scarcely crossed my mind before I heard a clatter
alongside the kerb, and turning round I saw a smart open carriage,
drawn by a pair of horses, standing there. I also heard my own name.
I turned. Bending out of the carriage was Madame Sara.

'I saw you going by, Mr Druce. I have only just heard the news
about poor Edith Dallas. I am terribly shocked and upset. I have been
to the house, but they would not admit me. Have you heard what was
the cause of her death?'

Madame's blue eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

'I am not at liberty to disclose what I have heard, Madame,' I
answered, 'since I am officially connected with the affair.'

Her eyes narrowed. The brimming tears dried as though by magic.
Her glance became scornful.

'Thank you,' she answered, 'your reply tells me that she did not
die naturally. How very appalling! But I must not keep you. Can I
drive you anywhere?'

'No, thank you.'

'Goodbye, then.'

She made a sign to the coachman, and as the carriage rolled away
turned to look at me. Her face wore the defiant expression I had seen
there more than once. Could she be connected with the affair? The
thought came upon me with a violence that seemed almost conviction.
Yet I had no reason for it—none.

To find Henry Joachim Silva was now my principal thought. My staff
had instructions to make every possible inquiry, with large money
rewards as incitements. The collateral branches of other agencies
throughout Brazil were communicated with by cable, and all the
Scotland Yard channels were used. Still there was no result. The
newspapers took up the case; there were paragraphs in most of them
with regard to the missing step-brother and the mysterious death of
Edith Dallas. Then someone got hold of the story of the will, and
this was retailed with many additions for the benefit of the public.
At the inquest the jury returned the following verdict:

'We find that Miss Edith Dallas died from taking poison of unknown
name, but by whom or how administered there is no evidence to
say.'

This unsatisfactory state of things was destined to change quite
suddenly. On the 6th of August, as I was seated in my office, a note
was brought me by a private messenger. It was as follows:

'Norfolk Hotel, Strand.

'Dear Sir—I have just arrived in London from Brazil, and have
seen your advertisements. I was about to insert one myself in order
to find the whereabouts of my sisters. I am a great invalid and
unable to leave my room. Can you come to see me at the earliest
possible moment? Yours, Henry Joachim Silva.'

In uncontrollable excitement I hastily dispatched two telegrams,
one to Selby and the other to Vandeleur, begging of them to be with
me, without fail, as soon as possible. So the man had never been in
England at all. The situation was more bewildering than ever. One
thing, at least, was probable—Edith Dallas's death was not due
to her step-brother. Soon after half-past six Selby arrived, and
Vandeleur walked in ten minutes later. I told them what had occurred
and showed them the letter. In half an hour's time we reached the
hotel, and on stating who I was we were shown into a room on the
first floor by Silva's private servant. Resting in an armchair, as we
entered, sat a man; his face was terribly thin. The eyes and cheeks
were so sunken that the face had almost the appearance of a skull. He
made no effort to rise when we entered, and glanced from one of us to
the other with the utmost astonishment. I at once introduced myself
and explained who we were. He then waved his hand for his man to
retire.

'You have heard the news, of course, Mr Silva?' I said.

'News! What?' He glanced up to me and seemed to read something in
my face. He started back in his chair.

'Good heavens,' he replied. 'Do you allude to my sisters? Tell me,
quickly, are they alive?'

'Your elder sister died on the 29th of July, and there is every
reason to believe that her death was caused by foul play.'

As I uttered these words the change that passed over his face was
fearful to witness. He did not speak, but remained motionless. His
claw-like hands clutched the arms of the chair, his eyes were fixed
and staring, as though they would start from their hollow sockets,
the colour of his skin was like clay. I heard Selby breathe quickly
behind me, and Vandeleur stepped towards the man and laid his hand on
his shoulder.

'Tell us what you know of this matter,' he said sharply.

Recovering himself with an effort, the invalid began in a
tremulous voice: 'Listen closely, for you must act quickly. I am
indirectly responsible for this fearful thing. My life has been a
wild and wasted one, and now I am dying. The doctors tell me I cannot
live a month, for I have a large aneurism of the heart. Eighteen
months ago I was in Rio. I was living fast and gambled heavily. Among
my fellow-gamblers was a man much older than myself. His name was
José Aranjo. He was, if anything, a greater gambler than I.
One night we played alone. The stakes ran high until they reached a
big figure. By daylight I had lost to him nearly £200,000.
Though I am a rich man in point of income under my uncle's will, I
could not pay a twentieth part of that sum. This man knew my
financial position, and, in addition to a sum of £5,000 paid
down, I gave him a document. I must have been mad to do so. The
document was this—it was duly witnessed and attested by a
lawyer—that, in the event of my surviving my two sisters and
thus inheriting the whole of my uncle's vast wealth, half a million
should go to José Aranjo. I felt I was breaking up at the
time, and the chances of my inheriting the money were small.
Immediately after the completion of the document this man left Rio,
and I then heard a great deal about him that I had not previously
known. He was a man of the queerest antecedents, partly Indian,
partly Italian. He had spent many years of his life amongst the
Indians. I heard also that he was as cruel as he was clever, and
possessed some wonderful secrets of poisoning unknown to the West. I
thought a great deal about this, for I knew that by signing that
document I had placed the lives of my two sisters between him and a
fortune. I came to Para six weeks ago, only to learn that one of my
sisters was married and that both had gone to England. Ill as I was,
I determined to follow them in order to warn them. I also wanted to
arrange matters with you, Mr Selby.'

'Knew her?' cried Silva. 'Very well indeed, and so, for that
matter, did I. Aranjo and Madame Sara were the best friends, and
constantly met. She called herself a professional
beautifier—was very handsome, and had secrets for the pursuing
of her trade unknown even to Aranjo.'

'Good heavens!' I cried, 'and the woman is now in London. She
returned here with Mrs Selby and Miss Dallas. Edith was very much
influenced by her, and was constantly with her. There is no doubt in
my mind that she is guilty. I have suspected her for some time, but I
could not find a motive. Now the motive appears. You surely can have
her arrested?'

Vandeleur made no reply. He gave me a strange look, then he turned
to Selby.

'Has your wife also consulted Madame Sara?' he asked, sharply.

'Yes, she went to her once about her teeth, but has not been to
the shop since Edith's death. I begged of her not to see the woman,
and she promised me faithfully she would not do so.'

'Has she any medicines or lotions given to her by Madame
Sara—does she follow any line of treatment advised by her?'

'No, I am certain on that point.'

'Very well. I will see your wife tonight in order to ask her some
questions. You must both leave town at once. Go to your country house
and settle there. I am quite serious when I say that Mrs Selby is in
the utmost possible danger until after the death of her brother. We
must leave you now, Mr Silva. All business affairs must wait for the
present. It is absolutely necessary that Mrs Selby should leave
London at once. Good night, sir. I shall give myself the pleasure of
calling on you tomorrow morning.'

We took leave of the sick man. As soon as we got into the street
Vandeleur stopped.

'I must leave it to you, Selby,' he said, 'to judge how much of
this matter you tell to your wife. Were I you I would explain
everything. The time for immediate action has arrived, and she is a
brave and sensible woman. From this moment you must watch all the
foods and liquids that she takes. She must never be out of your sight
or out of the sight of some other trustworthy companion.'

'I shall, of course, watch my wife myself,' said Selby. 'But the
thing is enough to drive one mad.'

'I will go with you to the country, Selby,' I said, suddenly.

'Ah!' cried Vandeleur, 'that is the best thing possible, and what
I wanted to propose. Go, all of you, by an early train tomorrow.'

'Then I will be off home at once, to make arrangements,' I said.
'I will meet you, Selby, at Waterloo for the first train to Cronsmoor
tomorrow.'

As I was turning away Vandeleur caught my arm.

'I am glad you are going with them,' he said. 'I shall write to
you tonight re instructions. Never be without a loaded revolver. Good
night.' By 6.15 the next morning Selby, his wife, and I were in a
reserved, locked, first-class compartment, speeding rapidly west. The
servants and Mrs Selby's own special maid were in a separate
carriage. Selby's face showed signs of a sleepless night, and
presented a striking contrast to the fair, fresh face of the girl
round whom this strange battle raged. Her husband had told her
everything, and, though still suffering terribly from the shock and
grief of her sister's death, her face was calm and full of repose. A
carriage was waiting for us at Cronsmoor, and by half-past nine we
arrived at the old home of the Selbys, nestling amid its oaks and
elms. Everything was done to make the home-coming of the bride as
cheerful as circumstances would permit, but a gloom, impossible to
lift, overshadowed Selby himself. He could scarcely rouse himself to
take the slightest interest in anything.

The following morning I received a letter from Vandeleur. It was
very short, and once more impressed on me the necessity of caution.
He said that two eminent physicians had examined Silva, and the
verdict was that he could not live a month. Until his death
precautions must be strictly observed.

The day was cloudless, and after breakfast I was just starting out
for a stroll when the butler brought me a telegram. I tore it open;
it was from Vandeleur,

'Prohibit all food until I arrive. Am coming down,' were the
words. I hurried into the study and gave it to Selby. He read it and
looked up at me.

'Find out the first train and go and meet him, old chap,' he said.
'Let us hope that this means an end of the hideous affair.'

I went into the hall and looked up the trains. The next arrived at
Cronsmoor at 10.45. I then strolled round to the stables and ordered
a carriage, after which I walked up and down on the drive. There was
no doubt that something strange had happened. Vandeleur coming down
so suddenly must mean a final clearing up of the mystery. I had just
turned round at the lodge gates to wait for the carriage when the
sound of wheels and of horses galloping struck on my ears. The gates
were swung open, and Vandeleur in an open fly dashed through them.
Before I could recover from my surprise he was out of the vehicle and
at my side. He carried a small black bag in his hand.

'I came down by special train,' he said, speaking quickly. 'There
is not a moment to lose. Come at once. Is Mrs Selby all right?'

'What do you mean?' I replied. 'Of course she is. Do you suppose
that she is in danger?'

'Deadly,' was his answer. 'Come.'

We dashed up to the house together. Selby, who had heard our
steps, came to meet us.

'Mr Vandeleur,' he cried. 'What is it? How did you come?'

'By special train, Mr Selby. And I want to see your wife at once.
It will be necessary to perform a very trifling operation.'

'Operation!' he exclaimed. 'Yes; at once.'

We made our way through the hall and into the morning-room, where
Mrs Selby was busily engaged reading and answering letters. She
started up when she saw Vandeleur and uttered an exclamation of
surprise.

'What has happened?' she asked. Vandeleur went up to her and took
her hand.

'Do not be alarmed,' he said, 'for I have come to put all your
fears to rest. Now, please, listen to me. When you visited Madame
Sara with your sister, did you go for medical advice?'

The colour rushed into her face.

'One of my teeth ached,' she answered. 'I went to her about that.
She is, as I suppose you know, a most wonderful dentist. She examined
the tooth, found that it required stopping, and got an assistant, a
Brazilian, I think, to do it.'

'And your tooth has been comfortable ever since?'

'Yes, quite. She had one of Edith's stopped at the same time.'

'Will you kindly sit down and show me which was the tooth into
which the stopping was put?'

She did so.

'This was the one,' she said, pointing with her finger to one in
the lower jaw. 'What do you mean? Is there anything wrong?'

Vandeleur examined the tooth long and carefully. There was a
sudden rapid movement of his hand, and a sharp cry from Mrs Selby.
With the deftness of long practice, and a powerful wrist, he had
extracted the tooth with one wrench. The suddenness of the whole
thing, startling as it was, was not so strange as his next
movement.

'Send Mrs Selby's maid to her,' he said, turning to her husband;
'then come, both of you, into the next room.'

The maid was summoned. Poor Mrs Selby had sunk back in her chair,
terrified and half fainting. A moment later Selby joined us in the
dining-room.

'That's right,' said Vandeleur; 'close the door, will you?'

He opened his black bag and brought out several instruments. With
one he removed the stopping from the tooth. It was quite soft and
came away easily. Then from the bag he produced a small guinea-pig,
which he requested me to hold. He pressed the sharp instrument into
the tooth, and opening the mouth of the little animal placed the
point on the tongue. The effect was instantaneous. The little head
fell on to one of my hands—the guinea-pig was dead. Vandeleur
was white as a sheet. He hurried up to Selby and wrung his hand.

'Thank heaven!' he said, 'I've been in time, but only just. Your
wife is safe. This stopping would hardly have held another hour. I
have been thinking all night over the mystery of your sister-in-law's
death, and over every minute detail of evidence as to how the poison
could have been administered. Suddenly the coincidence of both
sisters having had their teeth stopped struck me as remarkable. Like
a flash the solution came to me. The more I considered it the more I
felt that I was right; but by what fiendish cunning such a scheme
could have been conceived and executed is still beyond my power to
explain. The poison is very like hyoscine, one of the worst
toxic-alkaloids known, so violent in its deadly proportions that the
amount that would go into a tooth would cause almost instant death.
It has been kept in by a gutta-percha stopping, certain to come out
within a month, probably earlier, and most probably during
mastication of food. The person would die either immediately or after
a very few minutes, and no one would connect a visit to the dentist
with a death a month afterwards.'

What followed can be told in a very few words. Madame Sara was
arrested on suspicion. She appeared before the magistrate, looking
innocent and beautiful, and managed during her evidence completely to
baffle that acute individual. She denied nothing, but declared that
the poison must have been put into the tooth by one of the two
Brazilians whom she had lately engaged to help her with her
dentistry. She had her suspicions with regard to these men soon
afterwards, and had dismissed them. She believed that they were in
the pay of José Aranjo, but she could not tell anything for
certain. Thus Madame escaped conviction. I was certain that she was
guilty, but there was not a shadow of real proof. A month later Silva
died, and Selby is now a double millionaire.